


Oscar

by periferal



Category: RWBY
Genre: A Character Who Is Dead But Not Really, Aura - Freeform, Gen, POV Second Person, Volume 4 spoilers, Weirdness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-03
Updated: 2017-01-03
Packaged: 2018-09-14 12:32:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9181978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/periferal/pseuds/periferal
Summary: Oscar (Farm Boy) has conversations with a very insistent voice in his head.He's probably crazy.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't seen this week's episode, if there is one, so if this has been jossed, whoops.  
> Written in second person cause that felt more natural for this one. 
> 
> I have no idea where they're going with Oscar but I kind of like him.

“Oscar,” you hear. It’s a male voice.

You’ve just finished changing out of your work clothing. You drop them on the ground, nearly falling over yourself. You look around wildly for who could have spoken. You have a dim idea of it being your dad, but he’s gone. It can’t be your mom, obviously. And she wouldn’t say your name quietly; she would shout it.

“You will not be able to see me,” the voice says. “I’m sorry, but there’s no way for me to manifest separately from you.”

“Who… who are you?” you ask, feeling foolish. You’re talking to the air. Thankfully, your mom can’t hear you all the way in the other side of the house.

“Have you heard of Beacon Academy?” The voice sounds amused, more than anything.

Of course, you’ve heard of Beacon, you think, it’s your school—wait, why would you think that? You’ve never gone farther than the outskirts of your farm.

“Professor Ozpin?” you ask, not sure where the question comes from.

“Yes,” Ozpin answers. “Well, mostly. I’m also somewhat you, now, Oscar.”

What. That—that makes no sense at all. “I’m going crazy,” you say. “I’m definitely going crazy.”

“I can assure you that you are not,” Ozpin says. The voice in your head is telling you that you aren’t crazy. Right.

“Whatever,” you say. You resolve to ignore this voice in your head. It’s that or indulge it, and who knows how that might end.

-

A day later the voice tries again. You aren’t as startled as you were the first time, but it’s still surprising. “Oscar,” it says.

“My name again,” you say out loud. “How clever.” You’re organizing the meagre collection of books downstairs. Or pretending to, anyway.

Your mother is out, gone to buy the food you can’t grow for yourself. She’ll be gone all day for that. So, you have all day to do your tasks, and this isn’t one you’re all that interested in. It’s not like getting water or other farm work.

“One of those books is a history,” Ozpin says. “You should read it.”

“How does suggesting that prove you’re not part of my head?” you ask. You’re still speaking out loud, which is still nonsense.

“You’ve got me there,” the voice says. You feel pleased with yourself. You’re not going to let yourself get taken in by your own craziness. It goes quiet, and you find yourself pulling the book it pointed out to you. Obviously, it was just expressing your own interest.

As you read, you find yourself experiencing a very bizarre kind of almost memory. You could swear you’re reading about stuff familiar to you, stuff you’ve experienced. You shake your head to clear it. You must have read it before, when you were a lot younger.

Before you were strong enough to help around the farm, and before your father left, you used to spend hours curled up by the window in your room, reading. These half memories must come from then, not from some other person in your head.

“You’re getting it,” Ozpin says. You jump, dropping your book with a thud. You scramble to pick it up. You check it for damage.

“You made me lose my place!” you exclaim.

“You were on page—”

“Stuff it,” you say, putting the book back on the shelf. You don’t want to read anymore, anyway. The voice is back.

“I am Professor Ozpin,” the voice tells you, “I was—I am the Headmaster of Beacon Academy. And so are you, in a way.”

“Sure,” you say, “and next you’re going to tell me that I’m the descendent of one of the Four Maidens.”

“Something like that,” Ozpin says, which is no help at all. You shake your head, even though that didn’t work the last time. “Did you know of that story before?”

“Of course,” you say. “It’s pretty old. Basically true, too.” Wait, what. Again, that’s not something you would think. You don’t go in for fairy tales.

“I promise, it gets easier with time,” Ozpin says.

You go back to sorting books.

-

Two days go by. You almost forget—almost. You can’t quite let go of the half-memories, which come up at odd moments, or the dreams. The dreams are the strangest part, because they’re not memories, exactly, either, but versions of them.

A lady in red and a woman with a baton and a very serious expression on her face are common themes.

“Her name is Glinda,” you say to yourself when you wake up. “Glinda Goodwitch.”

“Very good!” Ozpin is back. He sounds pleased with himself. “She is a very old friend, and teaches at my—our academy. I’m glad you’ve started recognizing her.”

“I must’ve heard about her on the news,” you say without thinking. “The news out of Vale isn’t all that great, and I think I recognize her from there.”

You’ll be able to explain everything Ozpin tells you, you think. That’s how you know he’s just a voice in your head, not someone else feeding you his memories.

“You are more comfortable thinking yourself crazy?” Ozpin asks with disconcerting pleasantness.

“Stop doing that!” you say. You’re trying to focus on getting into your work clothes. “Responding to my thoughts, I mean.”

“They are just as much my thoughts,” Ozpin says, “but my apologies.”

“If they’re your thoughts too how come I can’t hear yours?” you ask. You’re reaching, you know you’re reaching but you don’t know how you know that.

“Our auras have yet to combine completely—you have to give final permission for that,” Ozpin says.

You flop back on your bed. You are not getting anything done until this conversation’s been dealt with, that’s for certain.

“Oh, so you don’t have to ask the first time around, but you do for everything else?” you grump. If there is somehow the aura of Beacon’s Headmaster in your head, and you’re not just going crazy out of sheer isolation, there’s still the problem of how you weren’t asked.

“I am sorry,” Ozpin says. “It was difficult for me, too.”

“Ugh,” you say. You say it again, just for good measure.


End file.
